A Second Redemption
by Olberic
Summary: Arthur Morgan's honourable deeds have granted him a second chance at righting all the wrongs in his life. He finds himself thrown back to the beginning of the events in Red Dead Redemption II, destined to suffer through the gang's fall once more. Would he be able to save everyone this time around?
1. Colter

**SPOILER WARNING:** Please do not read if you have not finished the main campaign for Red Dead Redemption II.

This story assumes the events of the "good ending."

* * *

 _A buck._ It was a buck. Grazing on a field of grass so far away.

That much Arthur Morgan was sure of.

He groaned, but no sound came out. He craned his neck, trying to see what was before him. But his body would not listen.

Where was he? What had he been doing last?

The buck raised its head. Turned towards him, beady black eyes and all.

It knew he was here. But Arthur was not afraid. He sensed no hostility from the creature. Just a gentle aura, one that invited him to come ever the closer.

And so he did. He could not feel his arms, but they carried him forward inch by inch. He could smell the grass now, sweet and warm underneath him. The gentle breeze caressed his face.

Then he laid before the majestic creature. It was larger and taller than any buck he had ever seen. Its antlers stretched as far as the skies, casting a shadow over his entire body. Arthur sucked in a tight breath. Still, he wasn't afraid. Just...tired.

The buck tilted its head down. Their eyes met. It stared straight at him... _into_ him. Arthur's mind whirled.

" _It is...over now, Arthur."_ The voice was distant. _Dutch?_ Was that Dutch?

 _"I'm a survivor, Black Lung!" A_ bitter anger. _"A survivor! That's all there is, living and dying!"_

Arthur's chest burned. He opened his mouth to cough, but nothing came out. The buck's solemn features were beginning to fade from his vision.

Was this it? Was he finally going to hell?

 _"Arthur?"_

His body was seized by an unwelcome cold.

 _"Arthur Morgan?! Mr. Morgan?!"_

"Uh..." Was that his voice?

" _Arthur? Is everything okay?"_ Dutch's face swam into view, features twisted in concern.

Arthur blinked. "Dutch? That you?" Once. _Twice._

Dutch was still there.

The man sighed. "Are you okay, Arthur?" He squinted into the distance, but there wasn't much to be seen in the endless sheets of snow. "Has the weather gone to your head? I can ask Mr. Smith to come instead."

"...Sorry." It was all Arthur could come up with at the moment.

Where...where was he right now? What happened to eternal burn in his chest? The fading pain and anger from his final moments? Micah? Dutch...

 _Dutch._

A terrible bitterness rose within him.

"Arthur?" He could see the impatience growing on Dutch's face, a reminder that it would be bad to keep the man waiting.

He shook his head to clear it. Oh, how he wanted to reach out and grab Dutch, to shake him, and demand _"why?!"_ over and over until he knew just _why._ But, the situation wasn't right. This world, wherever he was, seemed too real and alive, and the years had taught him better than to act impulsively.

"I'm...I'm fine," he managed to rasp. "Let's go."

It was all Dutch needed to hear. "Good." He turned away, raising his lantern in yet another futile effort to see through the heavy blizzard. "Micah and John are out there somewhere in this goddamned weather. Hopefully, we'll come across one or the other soon enough."

The information was beginning to sound familiar, as was this exchange. While he puzzled over his current dilemma, a figure approached them in the distance. Two horses followed close behind, surprisingly resilient in the unforgiving weather. "I've got them." Charles emerged from the snow, one rein in each hand. He nodded at them. "You can borrow mine, Arthur. Hope everything turns out fine."

Satisfied, Dutch clapped his gloved hands and reached out for the Count's reins. "Thank you." In one swift motion, he had swung himself atop his horse.

"Here." Charles had stepped forward and extended a hand. He offered his horse to Arthur. With a nod in her direction, he began to introduce her. "Her name is Taima. She's never failed me once all these years."

"I...uh." Arthur stared down at the rein, dumbfounded. Was it an illusion? Were Dutch and Charles illusions?

If this was hell, why was it making no sense at all?

"Thanks, I suppose."

Dutch ran his hand down the Count's back, giving it a few gentle pats. "Looks like we're all set to go," he said, looking down. "Mr. Smith, go get yourself warm. Mr. Morgan, let's ride." Brain like scrambled eggs, Arthur could only do what he was told. He reached out and grabbed the rein, mounting Charles' horse with ease.

Although unfamiliar with its rider, Taima was as gentle as its master. A few silent commands and the horse was galloping at a steady pace right behind Dutch. Arthur made no motion to speak, however. For once, he found himself grateful for a snowstorm as relentless as this one. He needed the silence now, to collect his troubling thoughts and...memories?

Bits and pieces were drifting back to him now, like some kind of bad dream. Hosea, who he loved even more Dutch, shot before his very eyes by Pinkertons. Sean, the fun-loving Irish bastard, head blasted off without warning. And young Lenny, who he had shared an unforgettable night with at the saloon, felled by faceless men.

Anger.

Frustration.

 _Regret._ Oh, there was so much regret.

Something warm trickled down his cheek. Then it faded just as fast, wiped away by the bitter cold. Arthur bit down on his lip, hard. His grip tightened around Taima's reins. He had a sudden urge to scream. Scream into the darkness of the night, where no one could ever hear him.

Dutch stopped a few feet in front of him. His lantern was raised and his dominant hand lay rested on his pistol with caution. "Who's there?" he called.

 _Micah._ An automatic thought.

"Gentlemen." A familiar voice.

His memories were playing out like the final script for a play. Moments later and the curtains of snow parted to reveal the traitorous rat. Arthur gritted his teeth, feeling the sudden rush of blood and anger to his head. It took everything he had not to shoot him right then and there.

"How did it go?" Dutch leaned forward, beckoning for Micah to come closer. "Did you find anything?"

"I did," Micah responded. "A house, a little ride down."

"Anyone home?"

"Sure. Place is blazing with light and noise. Sounded like a party in there."

"Could be the O'Driscolls," Arthur chimed in. If his memory was to be trusted, this was when they had first encountered a certain Mrs. Sadie Adler. "We should be careful."

Dutch raised a single eyebrow. "I was just beginning to wonder when you would finally talk, Arthur." Stuffing away the lantern, he reached for the Count's reins. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go take a look."

Micah nodded and turned his horse back around. "Follow me, men."

Arthur obeyed wordlessly. He remembered now. It was on this day that the O'Driscolls had utterly ruined Sadie's life. If they had not come when they did, well, he dared not think what would have happened. Looking back, Sadie's rescue was probably the one and only positive thing that came out of their run from Blackwater.

"I'll take the flank, Arthur," Dutch called out. "Go check on Micah."

Arthur grunted in response. He tugged on Taima's reigns and the horse launched forward with a soft neigh. Even if these feelings of his told him Micah was the spawn of Satan himself, he couldn't act without thinking. There would be time to deal with him, sooner or the later.

Falling into line with Micah, he kept his gaze concentrated on the road ahead. The man turned to face him and he glimpsed the slightest smirk on his face. "Ah, _Mr. Morgan_." He wondered how he had the patience to put up with this insufferable son of a bitch for so long. "I never thought I would be so pleased to see your face."

He chose to remain quiet a bit longer. He tried thinking back to what felt like an eternity ago. What had he said to Micah at this point of time? Even more...who was the person that he was before everything had happened?

Or had he never really changed?

"Are you sure about this?" he finally asked.

"Well, that's why we're taking a look now, aren't we?" Micah's words were laced with jest. "I'm just following Dutch's orders. Look, but don't talk to no one. I'm a good boy."

Hardly in the mood for pleasantries, Arthur could find nothing more to say. This was reality now, he told himself, illogical as it was. Some part of him still hung in utter disbelief, but every time he opened and closed his eyes, nothing changed. Not the freezing cold, his hollow feelings, or even Micah's ugly features.

It seemed that even his sense of time had been thrown in complete disarray. He was certain, just thirty minutes ago, that he was living the final moments of his blasted life. He had even caught a glimpse of the rising sun. Now, he was trapped in some perpetual nightmare, filled with faces he never wanted to see again. _Did_ _Marston make it out at least?_

Besides him, Micah's horse slowed to a trot. "Alright, we're close now. It's just ahead."

The three riders paused over the snowy hill, surveying the area below. An uncanny sense of déjà vu began to overwhelm Arthur. Everything was exactly as he remembered it, down to the minute details. A house, a shed, and a barn a little further down. It was a home away from all homes. He wondered why Sadie had chosen to live in the middle of nowhere.

"Lights off," Dutch commanded the party. "Let's proceed with caution. Oh, and leave the talking to me. One lonely man is far less menacing than three...nasty looking degenerates in this weather."

They hitched their horses by a rock near the house. Arthur reached across Taima's saddle for his usual rifle, then realised he was riding a borrowed horse. _"Shit,"_ he muttered to himself. Now, he had only his pistol to rely on.

"Micah, hide behind the shed there. Arthur, take the barn on the left." Dutch had gone on ahead. Arthur watched as he approached Sadie's house, . "Remember to _stay quiet_ and let me handle this."

He followed the instructions given and stepped inside the rotting barn. It would be a matter of minutes before the O'Driscolls discovered who they were dealing with. And not far from him, Micah would uncover the poor, frozen body of Jake Adler, the love of Sadie's life.

Things were slowly making more and more sense, and he didn't like it one bit. Here he was, at the very beginning of the end. Though, it would hardly be fair to call this the beginning. Dutch should have listened, back in Blackwater, back before they went for that setup of a ferry, or even back before Micah was a part of them all.

Goddamn, what did it matter now? If he was to suffer through the events of his sinful life once more, why couldn't he have been here earlier? It wasn't just about Mac, Davey, and Jenny anymore. When the gang approached its final moments, Sadie had been the only one he could rely on. Her help and encouragement was something he would never forget. If there existed the chance to give Sadie the normal life she deserved, he would have grasped it in a heartbeat.

" _Arthur!"_ Micah had lifted the cover over Jake's body. "Hey, Arthur! This isn't good. There's a body here!"

"I know." Arthur moved a single hand towards his holster. Soon, he would be forced to use it. "I told you we was dealing with O'Driscolls!"

A few of them had left the house, armed to the teeth as they closed in on Dutch. " _Hey! Come here!"_ The one in the front door was motioning at Dutch. "Let me get a closer look at you…"

Another stepped back in clear surprise. " _Holy shit,_ you're Dutch Van Der Linde! Wait till ol' Colm-"

It was his signal for action. Arthur stood, pistol in hand. He barely noticed the recoil of the shots as three of the O'Driscolls fell dead, sniped clean through the head by his bullets.

"Leave some for me, Morgan!" Micah complained.

Another thirty seconds passed and the three were surrounded by a slew of dead bodies, filled with alcohol and laughter just moments before. Adrenaline dying, Arthur suddenly felt sick to his stomach. What had he just done? Even if they were O'Driscolls, was it right of him to have killed them? These boys were no different from him, really. All fools, living the same mislead lives.

No, that wasn't even it. His mind was already made up. This time, things would be different. He couldn't just sit back and watch the tragedy unfold. Piece by piece, he would do something, change something, change _everything_ for the better.

"Arthur, come see what we can find in the cabin!" Dutch's voice. Arthur could hear him scurrying about in the kitchen, banging pots and pans to uncover every last stash. He may have accepted the situation he was in now, but Dutch...somehow, he could not bear to think about the man. The last twenty years of his life had been filled with fond memories spent with the gang. If he closed his eyes, he could still remember all the moments he shared with Dutch and Hosea. They were the family he never had.

The Dutch now was not the Dutch then. That Dutch had refused to rescue John and Abigail, that Dutch had listened to the whispering of a traitorous rat, and that Dutch had stepped away, the one time Arthur needed him in all of twenty years.

But Rains Fall's words remained a shadow in the back of his mind. The old Indian might have been right all along, and that people only grew to become more and more like themselves. Perhaps that was the truth he didn't want to face, not now, not ever.

"I...I think I heard something in the barn," Arthur called. An idea was starting to form in his head. Dutch aside, he had wanted to make a change, didn't he? "I'll check to make sure no one shoots our backs!"

No response from Dutch for a moment. Then, "...Alright!"

 _He could begin right now._

Arthur seized the opportunity at once, running as fast as he could to the stables. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and waited for his attacker.

A second passed. " _You bastards killed my cousin!"_ The O'Driscoll came plunging down from above. Fortunately, Arthur was prepared this time around. He sidestepped the boy, managing to catch his wrist at the last moment to prevent any serious injuries. Then he wrapped an arm around the O'Driscoll's neck, holding him in a tight grip as he motioned desperately for his victim to be quiet.

" _Listen,"_ Arthur urged in a hushed voice. "Don't make no noise now because the two out there, they would kill you before you could blink."

The O'Driscoll twisted his head to stare at him, eyes wide with fear.

"Your cousin's gone now, ain't nothing we can do about that. But I'm giving you a chance to live and _git._ " Arthur reached into his satchel, pulling out a can of peaches he still had left from Blackwater. "Take this and go hide up there. No moving until you hear us ride away."

The boy's fear washed over with confusion.

" _Arthur, what is taking you so long?!"_ Dutch's voice was drawing close.

Arthur snarled, pressing the can into the boy's hand. It was now or never. _"I'm not repeating myself, boy."_

The O'Driscoll obeyed without another word. He scrambled up the ladder just as the doors to the barn burst open. Panicked in the moment, Arthur spun around and threw his hands into the air. "Whoa there!" he shouted at the unsuspecting horse. "Easy! Easy!"

He held his breath as he waited for Dutch's response. Then relaxed as he heard the man chuckle. "I had almost forgotten you lost your horse back in Blackwater!" Dutch exclaimed. Thank God the man had fallen for his farce. "That is one fine-looking steed. Why don't you lead it outside?"

"Sure thing." At last, something that Arthur was happy to oblige to. He turned his attention back onto the horse. A few practiced motions and it was more than happy to let Arthur lead it outside. He turned back around, making sure to close the doors tight behind him. There was nothing more he could do for the O'Driscoll now. Hopefully, the boy managed to survive this goddamned blizzard.

"Let's go, boy." Arthur ran a hand down the horse's mane. It neighed with delight, now comfortable enough to move its mouth towards Arthur's satchel. He almost smiled with amusement. Even the snow wasn't enough to stop the horse from smelling the treats on him.

As they approached the cabin, frantic screaming filled the air a few yards away. " _Stay away!"_ Glass shattered, things shattered, and Micah laughed his horrible laugh. _"Get away from me!"_ Fire erupted without warning, creeping along the structured wood to create an unusually festive scene in the dead of winter.

The door swung open. "You are _fine_ now, lady," he heard Dutch say. With a protective arm around Sadie, the man stepped down the stairs as he guided her to his horse. "You will be fine," he repeated. "We are going to take you somewhere nice and warm, where you won't be harmed."

As they got close, Arthur faced away and busied himself with his new horse. He thought he had felt every emotion possible up until now, but he suddenly found that was he afraid. Was it Dutch? Was it Micah? Was it the inevitable future? He couldn't even begin to understand.

It was like being told he had tuberculosis again.

"Arthur? You alright?" Unexpectedly, Micah approached him. If Arthur didn't know any better, the man almost sounded concerned.

He straightened at once, reaching up to pull the rim of his hat over his eyes. The last thing he wanted was for Micah to discover yet another thing to torment him about.

"Just fine," he grunted. "Let's go." He climbed onto his new horse and gave it a few gentle pats. It was no Taima or Boadicea, but it was a beautiful and sturdy beast all the same. A bit of a push and it was galloping strong in the storm.

He spent the ride home staring at Sadie's back, heart heavy with regret. He would have helped her if he could, but it was too late now. She had started her path of vengeance and bloodshed, never to be the loving wife of a loving husband.

All he could do now was save as many people as he could in the gang. Separate them as far as he could from Dutch's "Tahiti" and Micah's destructive tendencies.

It was the very least he could do, with this godforsaken life he had to live once more.

* * *

 **Note:** Boadicea is the name of Arthur's old horse in the game. He mentions it to Hosea on their hunting trip for the legendary bear and it seems to have been lost during the events of Blackwater.

1/3/19: Heavily edited parts of the chapter for better flow.

I do not write fast, but I will keep this story updated to the best of my ability.


	2. Ethan

Hosea staggered forward. He took one step. Then another.

 _No. Not this._ Arthur refused to believe what he was seeing. _Anything but this._ His hands trembled. A terrible fear seized him. He tried to look away. Could not.

 _Run, Hosea! LIVE!_

 _PLEASE..._

His throat burned. His eyes watered.

Hosea stopped. Looked back. Hesitation in his movement, but he knew. Knew that there was no escape.

Arthur screamed.

A hole had opened in Hosea's chest. The gun smoked in Milton's hand.

Nothing happened at first. Then he fell all at once. Crumpled to the ground like used tissue. There was no fear in his eyes. Just acceptance. _"Bessie…"_

 _No._

His world was spinning again.

 _No…_

"Arthur?"

 _NO!_

It couldn't end this way. Not again. He had to do something... _anything._ Where was his rifle?

Goddamn it all, where was it?!

" _Hello?! ARTHUR MORGAN?!"_

He shot up, gasping for air. His eyes slowly adjusted to the world around him. Judging by the sunlight, it was already early afternoon. How long had he slept? His bedsheets lay all over the ground. His clothes were drenched in cold sweat.

"Arthur...is everything alright?" Hosea sat at the end of his bed. There was a deep frown on his face. "I must say, all these years and I have never heard such fuss from you in your sleep."

"I…" Arthur grimaced. He pressed a hand on his forehead. "I'm fine. Just a bad dream."

Hosea raised a critical eyebrow. "Are you sure? Has the weight of your sins finally caught up to you?"

"Very funny." Arthur slid off his bed, reaching for the coat he had draped on the side. Although the blizzard had died down, it was still as cold as ever. He wrapped himself tight. Then put on his trusty hat, as battered as it was with the years.

"I'm serious, Arthur." He looked back down. Hosea hadn't budged an inch.

Arthur groaned loudly. "Why're you still here?" he complained. "Ain't you got better things to do? Like talking with Dutch 'bout how we're gonna get out of this all?"

Hosea said nothing for awhile. The same pensive look remained his face. Seeing that Arthur was unwilling to share anything more, he finally stood and stretched his arms into the air. "Well, alright. Speak up if you have any concerns. You know I'm always here for you."

"Yeah, yeah." Arthur waved him off. "Go away already, old man."

"We all are, Arthur." Hosea chuckled and closed the door. Arthur could hear him shuffle back to his rocking chair. Moments later, he heard the hushed tones of conversation between Dutch and Hosea. He allowed himself a small smile. Many a nights he had fallen asleep to those sounds. Over time, it had even become an unusual source of comfort to him.

Sinking back down on his bed, he let loose a small sigh. The wild panic from his nightmare had faded, but left him terribly exhausted. He needed to clear his thoughts and sort out his memories, whatever they were. Last night had him so drained that all he could do was stumble back to his room and give in to sleep.

And truth be told, he had hoped to wake up far, far away from this terrible reality he was now in. Or never wake up again, which was what things were supposed to be. After all, he died...didn't he?

If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the miserable effects of tuberculosis. It had taken quite the toll on him, towards the end. So much of his strength had gone. Every step was a struggle and each word left him breathless. His chest burned with an endless pain. The taste of blood never left his mouth.

In some ways, his death was a saving grace. Actually, _dying_ was a saving grace. It was funny how much clearer the world became then. As weak as he was at that point, he wanted to do as much he could before he took his last breath. Give something back to the hundreds of the people he had only ever known to take from.

His stomach rumbled unexpectedly. He hadn't realised how hungry he was. But in this weather, Pearson couldn't have cooked anything up. He would have to make do with the canned food left in his satchel. Reaching a hand inside, he felt around for his final ration of peaches.

Then remembered he had passed it off to the O'Driscoll yesterday. He sighed again. Maybe it was time to reconsider this "good man" thing he had going on.

He searched his satchel a bit more, hoping for something else. With a habit of picking up the weirdest things from the weirdest places, his curiosity had seldom let him down. There was a pack of cigarettes, a silver pocket watch he had looted off a Pinkerton, and how could he forget? _His journal!_

He pulled it out at once, unable to contain his excitement. Although the others in the gang were privy to his unusual hobby, none of them knew just how important it was to him. It held his memories, his thoughts, his feelings...things he could never confide in another living soul. There were no secrets to be found in his journal. Each page was as vulnerable as he was.

His pen lay at the very bottom of his satchel. He flipped through the entries until he reached the next available page. It was time to pour it all out. Everything he had experienced in the last twenty-four hours.

...Or so he thought he would.

Ten minutes later, and the page remained as blank as his mind was. What was he to write? That he died? But now he was alive again? That none of this made any damn sense?

For whatever reason, the image of Sister Calderon crossed his mind. He could still recall his conversation with her at the train station, word for word. It was the last time they would ever see each other.

He had told her everything that day. In fact, he was ashamed for doing so, thinking that a stranger he had only met a couple times would even care about his terrible life. But Sister Calderon smiled. Saw something in him that he never could. And her words then filled him with a peace he didn't know possible.

" _There is nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Morgan. Take a gamble that love exists...and do a loving act."_

 _That was it._

That was what was important. He would write that down.

And so he did. Plus, a small sketch of Sister Calderon, whose kind face he would never forget.

The door slammed open just as he was making the finishing touches. "Arthur! Arthur, I need you right now." Charles stood in the hallway, an impatient look on his face.

Arthur shut his journal. "What for?"

"Hunting. Everyone is starving in camp."

Of course.

"Why couldn't someone else go? I bet Bill's up to nothing again. And Micah...well, who knows what that bastard's ever done for us."

Charles huffed. "I'd sooner be mauled by a bear than walk into that hut full of drunks and bums."

A chuckle escaped Arthur. That was one of Charles' gifts. Always saying things like they were. "Can't argue with that." He stuffed his writing accessories away and got to his feet. He retrieved his rifle, holster, and winter gloves and then slipped on his satchel and boots. It was time to face the cold once again.

They walked past Hosea and Dutch in the living room, neither of whom looked up from their conversation. Arthur could tell it was getting heated now. Dutch had a dangerous glint in his eye. Hosea's face was buried in his hands. Casting a sideways glance at them, Charles quickened his pace as Arthur followed.

Not a word was spoken until they had reached their horses. They spent a while adjusting their saddles and equipment. The cold had completely frozen parts of the stirrup, making it difficult to secure properly.

Charles swung himself on top of Taima and glanced down at Arthur with an anxious expression. "Things didn't look good back there," he said. "Are they always like that?"

Arthur shrugged. "More or less." Side by side, Hosea and Dutch were often like water and oil. But he had always liked to believe it was one of the main reasons why they all survived as long as it did.

"Well, I haven't ran with the gang for long." Charles grunted, digging around his horse's saddle. "But Dutch always seems to know what to do."

"I ain't so sure about that," Arthur muttered without thinking.

"You losing faith, Arthur?" Amusement in Charles' voice. "That ain't like you."

 _Yeah, and it took me too goddamn long to realise it._ He decided to change the topic. "So, what're we hunting?"

"Pearson says that there are no animals around these parts, but that's because none of those fools know how to hunt. Go in with guns blazin' and you'll be scaring off every creature half a mile around." Charles had procured a bow from his saddle. "Here."

"Oh, right. You should be resting that hand."

"A stupid mistake. Reckon it'll heal in a few days, but we can't go that long without food."

"Right." Arthur caught the bow as Charles tossed it towards him. At first, he had found the idea of hunting with it ridiculous and outdated. Less than a week out in the wilds quickly taught him otherwise. Not only did arrows leave the meat fresh and clean, the pelts he skinned could be sold at a much higher price. And in some ways, he was glad to keep the killing of humans separate from the killing of animals.

"Follow me!" Charles' voice came from far away. Just a few seconds of thinking and the man was already a speck in the distance.

"Damn it all, wait up!" Arthur reached down for his horse's reins. He opened his mouth to urge it forwards, but then the door to the cabin ahead burst open without warning.

Abigail rushed outside, waving her arms in frantic manner. "Oh my god!" she exclaimed upon seeing him. "Arthur, _Arthur!"_

It struck him at once. How could he have forgotten? Little John had gotten himself lost again.

"Let me guess," he said. "Marston?"

"Yes! _Please_ , Arthur!" Those were tears in the woman's eyes. "He's probably gotten stuck somewhere or...even worse...oh, I can't think about it! Please, could you-"

"Yeah, yeah." Arthur cut her off. "I'll go get your John for you. Just go back inside." The hunting trip would have to wait. John was somewhere out there right now, waiting to become wolf feed.

"Oh, thank you, Arthur." Relieved for the moment, Abigail wiped away her tears. "Please be safe!"

Sighing softly, he turned around to break the news to Charles. Abigail was too good. Too good for John sometimes.

He found the man on the side of the road, waiting impatiently for him. "What was that all about?" the other asked.

"Marston's in trouble again," Arthur told him. "Abigail's worrying herself half to death, she is."

A concerned look passed Charles' face. "Looks like we won't be getting the food now."

"That's what I was thinking."

"You know where he could be?"

"I got an idea."

"Well, lead the way then." They directed their horses in the other direction, away from the forests and into the mountains.

Arthur was always told he had a decent sense of direction. It was largely why Dutch liked to send him on scouting expeditions. What was guiding him this time, however, wasn't his ability to memorise particular landmarks or details. For some reason, he could recall with unusual clarity the route he had taken to rescue John.

He rode with Javier then. Though the man had been with the gang for over four years, they rarely spoke outside of missions. But it wasn't because Arthur disliked him. There simply wasn't much to talk about. That was probably the reason why Javier had decided to bring up Marston. Everyone in the camp knew he had left for an entire year. Then out of the blue, he returned one day pretending like nothing ever happened.

Things were difficult at first. John's disappearance had hit Jack and Abigail the most. Over time, most forgot or forgave, yet Arthur could not let go of his own bitter feelings. He told himself that it was because John had abandoned his own son when he needed him the most. But he knew better now.

No, it was because Marston had shown he _could_ leave. Unlike Arthur, he was able to separate himself from "loyalty," from the gang that had raised him, and perhaps even from the life of an outlaw. He wasn't bound to his own stupid, blind ideals the way Arthur always was.

And Arthur had been envious. Envious that Marston did what he never could. While he blamed John for being "two different people," his anger had actually been towards himself.

Oh, he loved Mary. Loved her so much he had tried to push her out of his life. He believed that she wasn't important to him anymore. He belonged to the place that had raised him. Yet...there were the long nights, filled with contemplation and regret. If only he could run away! He would raise a son, maybe even a daughter. Be the loving father he never was to Isaac. He would teach them to draw, to read, and maybe even give them a proper education.

Then he would remember Dutch. Hosea. Even Bill. All those nights they had spent together. They had risked their lives for each other. Ran from the law with each other. He couldn't possibly leave them. It was the only life he ever knew, but...

" _Goddamn it all!"_ He swore out loud without realising.

Charles slowed down immediately. "Everything okay, Arthur?" he asked. "You sure you know where we're going?"

Arthur took a few deep breaths. His head pounded like hammer on nails. "Yeah," he forced out. "This is the right direction. I'm sure of it." The snow was becoming thicker and thicker as the horses worked their way up the mountain path. It wasn't long before Arthur spotted John's horse a little ahead. The poor thing had become a sad, rotting mess for nature's best predators.

He pulled out his pistol and fired a few shots into the air. A few seconds passed.

 _"Hey! I'm here! Over here!"_

A grin spread across Charles' face. "That's John!" he exclaimed. "I'm sure of it!"

"'Course." Arthur slid off his horse and slung his rifle around his shoulder. "Who else would be stupid enough to get themselves lost in a place like this?"

Charles followed suit, sinking knee-deep into the snow next to him. "What is it with you two anyways?" he questioned. "I thought you grew up together."

"Nothing, really." Though he could barely believe it himself, he was actually looking forward to seeing John again. "He's a good fool, that's all."

The trek through the mountain was surprisingly fast now that Arthur knew exactly where to go. Barely ten minutes had passed when they found John groaning at the side of a cliff. It hadn't occurred to Arthur the first time just how severe Marston's injuries were. Mauled by wolves, kidnapped by Pinkertons, falling off a train robbery...Arthur couldn't help but feel a little impressed by the man's track record for survival.

"Took you long enough," John grunted upon seeing them. His eyes were glazed over in pain. There were two nasty cuts on one side of his face.

Charles stepped down, taking a quick look at the John's injuries. "Oh, that does not look good."

"You just manage to find every way to worry your girl to death, don't you?" Arthur chided, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. "Drink this, Marston. It'll help with the pain."

John nodded, accepting the liquor with gratitude. "Th-thanks…"

"Help me with him, Arthur." Charles knelt and reached for John's legs. "Let's get back before the sun sets." The two of them lifted John together, carrying him back to where their horses were waiting.

Thankfully, no more wolves showed up on their journey home. John was secured on Arthur's horse, drifting in and out of consciousness. It wasn't long before they could see Colter's buildings just up ahead.

"Wake up, princess," Arthur said. "Just a little more before you can sleep like the dead...if you ain't already."

"Real funny, Arthur," John muttered back. "You wanna try becoming wolf feed for a night? I promise you, it's an once in a lifetime experience."

"Too bad I ain't stupid enough to-"

Without warning, a gun roared in the distance. Something whistled past Arthur's ear, almost taking it clean off.

" _Down!"_ Charles shouted, jumping off his horse and running for cover.

" _Shit!"_ Panicking, Arthur quickly looked for someplace to take John to. What a terrible, terrible place to be shot at. They were like sitting ducks out in this field of snow. From the corner of his eye, he could see three men on horses approaching.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Ethan?" O'Driscolls! "How hard is it to shoot a man that ain't hardly moving!"

"I...I'm sorry. I…" A timid response.

Arthur froze. The voice was terribly familiar for some reason. As he pulled John down from his horse, he shot a quick look at the O'Driscolls.

Sure enough, it was the boy he had spared yesterday from their adventures at Sadie's old place. He seemed to have survived the blizzard and had joined up with other members of the gang. Their eyes met briefly. Arthur realised at once that the boy must have missed on purpose.

"And Colm says he's the best shot we have," the O'Driscoll on the right snarled. "Here, I'll show you how a real fucking man does it."

"W-wait! I have a better idea!" The boy was buying him time. Arthur had to get John to safety as fast as he could.

He spotted Charles a few meters ahead, sheltered behind a rock. The man waved two frantic arms at him. "Quick!" he hissed. "Over here! Damn my hand, can't even pull a gun right now."

Arthur could only move so fast with the weight of Marston's body. The snow was deep here as well, forcing him to choose his steps carefully. Was this it? Had their luck finally run out?

"Fuck off, kid." The O'Driscoll on the left seemed just about fed up with the boy's pleads. "I always knew you ain't worth shit."

Arthur heard the sound of a rifle being loaded. Warning bells went off his in head. Without thinking, he dropped Marston to the ground and shielded him as much as he could with his body.

Gunfire rang through the air. Horses squealed in pain and panic. Arthur waited for inevitable death...but it never came.

"Mr. Morgan, _Mr. Morgan…_ " Micah had appeared, walking towards him. His pistols smoked in his hands. "Are you inviting O'Driscolls to our camp now?"

Arthur spun around at once, ignoring him. His eyes had fallen on the young O'Driscoll, who was beginning to topple from his horse. Blood seeped freely from the hole in his chest. The bullet had pierced straight through him, exactly the way it had with Hosea.

At first, there was shock.

Then panic.

 _Fear._

He had killed hundreds of people in his life. He had seen all kinds of death. But this...this would haunt him forever.

"Morgan, what the hell is wrong with you? Don't tell me you're an O'Driscoll sympathiser now."

 _Micah._

 _He did this._

 _It was always goddamned Micah._

 _Just how many more lives would the bastard ruin in his wake?_

 _Damn you, Micah._

 _DAMN YOU TO HELL, MICAH!_

Burning with rage and sorrow, Arthur turned on him in an instant. _"You son of a bitch!"_ he roared. He almost moved to seize Micah by the neck, then noticed the rest of the gang drawing in on horseback.

In the blink of an eye, Dutch had rode up between them. "What's going on?" he demanded. "We heard gunshots and came rushing over."

Micah shrugged. "Poor Morgan and his friends here lead the O'Driscolls back to camp," he reported. "Luckily for them, I arrived just in time. Shot one, the other two ran. Then Morgan lost his head, as usual."

"Shut your mouth," Arthur growled.

"Enough!" Dutch barked. "We have to chase the two that escaped _now_. They'll lead the rest of the boys back to our camp if we don't stop them in their tracks."

"Right away, boss." Micah shot Arthur a smirk as he got back on his horse.

Arthur's blood boiled.

"And Arthur," Dutch continued. "Good work today with Mr. Smith. Would you two mind taking John back to the camp? I'm sure Abigail would be pleased to see him back safe."

"Sure." Arthur slung John back onto his shoulder. The man had passed out sometime ago. "Come on, Charles."

"As for the rest of you. _Let's ride!"_ The ground tremored as the horses sped off under Dutch's command. Arthur watched them disappear in the distance, glad he wasn't asked to come along.

"Are you okay?" Charles asked as they began walking back to Colter camp. "You don't seem okay."

"Peachy."

"I'd believe that, Arthur," he continued. "But you've been acting real strange all day."

"Just tired, that's all."

He spotted Abigail waiting outside the cabin just ahead. Just in time. He quickly walked past Charles towards her, eager to escape the conversation. Her face fell as he drew near. "Oh, John!" she cried. "What happened to him?!"

"Don't worry, he ain't dead." He followed her inside. A bed had been prepared on the other side of the room. "The wolves didn't love him that much...yet."

"Wolves?!" Abigail repeated, her tone incredulous.

"Yes, wolves." With great care, he deposited Marston right where he belonged. "Your John sure is something else."

Susan Grimshaw rushed up to them, hands full with bandages and a blanket. "Those look like real nasty wounds," she muttered, giving John a good look over. "We'll have to clean up him immediately to prevent infection. Tilly, would you give me a hand?"

"Do we have any rations left for him as well?"

"Not much. Everyone's hungry right now, especially poor little Jack."

He quietly slipped away as the rest of the gang began to surround Marston. Charles had already returned to his cabin. The camp outside was eerily silent without the rest of the gang. Whistling for his horse, he rode back to the place where the O'Driscoll boy had fallen. Fresh snow had already covered a large portion of the body. With great effort, he pulled it out from underneath and carried it with him back to his horse. A proper burial was the least this boy deserved.

He chose to rode around the camp and into the mountains, searching for a good place to bury the body. Eventually, he reached a tiny hill that overlooked a good portion of the mountain range. The snow was also shallow enough for him to reach the dirt.

He immediately got to work. It took about an hour for him to dig a hole. Then another half hour to bury the body. When the deed was complete, he took a couple steps back, hoping he had chosen the right spot.

The sight was breathtaking, to say the least. It was a full moon tonight. Uncovered by the clouds, its gentle light illuminated everything in sight. A soft snow had begun falling. Beneath him, a river glittered across the frost-covered road, stretching as far as the eyes could see. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled with its mates.

For the first time since his revival, Arthur Morgan felt at peace. He wanted to preserve the sight forever. If only the pages of his journal would stay dry in this weather.

He closed his eyes for a moment. He remembered the boy's name now.

" _Thank you, Ethan."_

He paid his respects for awhile longer before calling for his horse. There was another reason for his venture into the wilderness. Pearson would be cooking by the end of the day, whether the man liked it or not. That, or he'd be cooking Pearson himself if it came to it.

So far, multiple lives have already been lost. Frankly, there wasn't much he could do about the blood feud between Dutch and the O'Driscolls. And it wasn't like the O'Driscolls themselves were entirely innocent.

But he had been making a fool of himself, over and over and over. First Hosea, then Micah, and even Charles. They probably thought there was something awfully wrong with him, and in some ways, they were right. Micah had technically saved his life, after all. There had been no real reason for him to lose his cool like that.

It was imperative that he rethink everything. Keep his head on his shoulders from now on.

Where did everything start? Where did everything begin? Could he change Dutch? Could he convince the others to give up their life as an outlaw? Or would he be marked for betrayal and left for dead, like last time?

He was living a second life, but somehow, it felt even shorter to him than his final days with tuberculosis. There were no room for mistakes. The ball was already rolling. Blackwater. The Pinkertons. Leviticus Cornwall.

 _Leviticus Cornwall._

Of course.

Everything had began with revenge. And everything had ended with revenge.

* * *

 **Note:** I had extra time this week so I was able to complete this far earlier than expected. The next chapter has already been started, but things will be busy for awhile. Thank you all for your amazing support!


	3. Leviticus Cornwall

He had been surprised at just how active the wildlife turned after dark. Coyotes of all kinds were on the prowl, looking for a tasty meal to bring back to their young ones. There were owls, crows, and even a few pigeons fluttering about in the night sky. Tiny creatures emerged from their burrows, hoping for a quick snack before the big predators rose with the sun.

It was quite the haul. Two medium-sized deer, three rabbits, and a few eggs he had stolen from an unguarded nest. Altogether, it was enough to feed the gang for at least a few days.

Daylight was breaking over the horizon when he returned to camp. The place was dead silent, but one glance at the mismatched footprints was enough to tell him that the rest of the gang must have returned from their O'Driscoll expedition. He hitched his horse then reached into his satchel to check his pocket watch. _Five thirty in the morning._ Late enough to bother ol' Pearson.

Taking extra care not to wake the other residents, he gently pushed open the door to the cabin. Although the place was packed to the rim, everyone had found their own special spot to fall asleep. He spotted Pearson sprawled out on the same bench as Reverend Swanson. The man's mouth was open mid-snore and there was an empty bottle of liquor in one of his hands.

Arthur tiptoed his way towards the camp cook, carefully stepping over Leopald Strauss in the process. He placed one hand over Pearson's mouth as he slapped the man's face with the other.

" _Wake up, you ol' coot!"_

Startled, Pearson's eyes flew open immediately. _"Wha-!_ " he sputtered. _"Jesus Christ, Arthur!"_

"Time to get up." Arthur seized hold of the man's arm, pulling him up from the bench. _Shit_ , Pearson was heavier than expected. "You got some cookin' to do, buddy."

"Ugh…" It took additional convincing and even some force, but he eventually got Pearson to follow him outside. "What is the meaning of this, Morgan?" he demanded with a sour face. "I ain't got no food for you."

Arthur wagged a finger in the cook's face. "Oh, but you will soon." He gestured towards the animals he had hung on his horse. "That enough for a couple of days?"

Pearson's eyes widened in surprise. He hobbled over to the carcasses, giving them a good look over. "You...you got all this?"

"'Course." Arthur walked up to him and reached for one of the deer. Untying it from the rest, he lifted it over his shoulder. "Why're you still standing there? Give me a hand already!"

They moved the animals to Pearson's makeshift kitchen on the other side of the camp. Pearson lit the coals and began to defrost the pots and pans over the warmth for use. Meanwhile, Arthur knelt and pulled out his hunting knife.

"I'll start skinning the deer, Pearson," he announced. "Just holler if you need help over there."

He sensed no movement from the other man for a bit. Glancing up, he saw that Pearson was staring at him with a bewildered expression. "You in a good mood or something, Morgan?" the cook finally asked.

"...what do you mean?"

"It's just...well, usually, you're not so…" Pearson paused, as if searching for the right word. "Nice."

Arthur frowned, somewhat taken back. Was he truly so different now that even dumb ol' Pearson had something to say about it? "Right…" he retorted. " _Nice._ Ain't gonna be so nice when noon comes and you're still sitting there warming your hands." He grabbed a rabbit from the table and threw it at Pearson's face. "Better start moving or mark my words, I'll be cooking you myself."

With both their efforts combined, time flew by twice as fast. The meat, from both the deer and the rabbit, were sliced into small chunks and dropped into boiling water to let the flavour slowly seep into the stew. Halfway, Pearson discovered some carrots in an old saddle and chopped them up to add to the mix. Last came the eggs, cracked and dropped inside as the broth thickened. Soon, a savoury aroma began to waft throughout the air.

"Good work, Mr. Morgan." Pearson wiped his hands with a cloth as he peered inside the steaming pot. He nodded with satisfaction. "That should be enough to feed the gang for an entire day. I've stored the excess meat for tomorrow."

"Sure hope so." Arthur's stomach grumbled in heavy anticipation. If this wasn't the best goddamned stew that Pearson ever cooked in his entire life, he'd be sorely disappointed.

Sudden, cheerful whistling drew his attention away from the food. Hosea had emerged from his cabin and was approaching them. Dutch was only a few steps behind. "What do we have here?" A big grin spread across Hosea's face. "I knew that Pearson was preparing something good for us. See, Dutch, I was right."

Dutch chuckled. "That you are, my old friend. That you are."

"You two are just in time." Out of nowhere, Pearson had pulled out several trays as well as a gigantic ladle. He set the utensils on the table next to the pot. "Well? What are you waiting for? Dig in!"

"Thank you, Mr. Pearson," Dutch said. "The gang can always count on you."

Pearson shook his head. "Oh, don't thank me. Thank Mr. Morgan here. He's the one who brought back all the meat."

"Arthur?" It seemed that the two only noticed him now.

He greeted each of them with a polite nod. "Dutch. Hosea."

Hosea walked up to him and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "I was wondering where you went, my boy," he exclaimed. "You weren't in your room last night."

"Well…" Arthur shrugged. All the attention was making him rather uncomfortable. "I figured we needed food so...I went and got some."

Next to Hosea, Dutch beamed with unchecked pride. "Would you look at that," he mused, a twinkle in his eye. "We raised the boy well, didn't we?"

"Of course we did." Hosea waved as he sauntered past them towards the other side of the camp. "Why don't you three start eating? I'll wake the others."

* * *

There is little else more motivating in this world than the promise of food. Ten minutes later and everyone had left their cabins, eager for a hot bowl of stew in the unforgiving weather. Pearson passed out the utensils while Arthur filled the bowls.

Charles was the last person in line. He regarded Arthur with an amused expression as he held out his plate. "I heard you went hunting after all that last night, Arthur," he said. "You could have told me."

"You was better off resting that hand of yours." Arthur scooped the largest serving possible for him. "Though...thanks for teaching me how to hunt. This wouldn't have been possible without you."

"Teach you?" Charles appeared baffled. "I didn't teach you nothing."

"What do you mean-" _You bumbling idiot._ They had gone to rescue Marston last night. Charles was right, he didn't even get the chance to teach him anything. At least, not this time. "Never mind," he mumbled, cheeks flushing with discomfort. "Enjoy your meal." Eyebrows still raised in speculation, Charles slowly nodded, accepted his share then left to find a place to eat.

"You've done quite enough, Mr. Morgan." Pearson had appeared behind him. The cook reached over and snatched the ladle from his hand. "Go fill your belly. …Here."

"Thanks." Arthur took the plate, but the gnawing hunger from before had all but vanished. That had been a bad slip on his part. And Charles was a keen one. Quiet, but keen.

But maybe…maybe that was why he could trust him. Charles had always been a good man. He wasn't born to be a liar, thief, an outlaw. It had been the unfortunate colour of his skin that dictated his place in the world. He was surviving, like everyone else in the gang, but it was a different kind of survival.

Conviction reignited, Arthur stepped out in search of Charles. He didn't know what he would tell him yet, or even how he would tell him. However, the thought eased him a bit, knowing that there might be someone out there in this lonely world he could count on.

He was halfway across the camp when Dutch abruptly rose from where he had been sitting. "Gentlemen!" he bellowed. When he was sure he had that attention of everyone in the camp, he continued. "Now that our bellies have been filled, it is time to we make something of ourselves."

Arthur's spoon clattered to the ground. Something like panic and fear jolted through his body. _No,_ Dutch couldn't possibly mean…

"Get your horses ready because _we have a train to rob!_ "

He flung the rest of his stew aside at once. This couldn't happen again. Not on his watch. As much as he despised Cornwall for the greedy bastard he was, the man had all the right to hunt them like the savages they were.

And robbing that blasted train had been the first cause in the chain of events. Oh, Dutch was always too proud. Proud and confident. In the end, it was everyone else who had paid for his goddamned decisions.

Mac, Davey, and Jenny were long gone. And as much as he hated to admit it, their deaths seemed like a fragment of some ancient, forgotten history. But he was here now. And so were Sean, Hosea, Lenny…

He spotted Hosea ahead, trying to stop Dutch from heading into the stables. "Why are we doing this?" the man was inquiring. "Weather is breaking, we could leave. I thought we was lying low."

"We need money, Hosea." Dutch motioned for Charles to bring him the Count. "Everything that we have - _had_ \- is back in Blackwater."

"But..." Hosea trailed off, seemingly at a lost for words.

Arthur decided it was time to step in. "Hosea is right, Dutch," he interjected, moving up to join them. "It's too risky. This ain't no time to be robbing trains when the Pinkertons are hot on our trail and Marston's lying on a bed!"

Dutch sighed. "You too, Arthur?" There was a deep disappointment in his voice. Irritation, perhaps. "You should know more than anyone else here that we _need_ money. With enough money, we can-"

"It ain't about the goddamned money." Arthur snapped, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. Once upon a time, he may have been at Dutch's beck and call, but not anymore. Never again. He could see clearly now and the man was full of lies. Shame on him for having believed almost every single one of them. "This train you was wanting to rob…" he continued. "It belongs to a man named Leviticus Cornwall. That bastard owns just about everything you've ever set your eyes on. The mines, railroads, oil, and let me tell you, if he learns about us, he will be paying the Pinkertons fat rolls of cash until every single one of us is ten feet under the ground."

"Well, good for him then." Dutch swung himself on top of the Count and turned to face the exit. "He can learn just who he'll be dealing with."

Arthur gritted his teeth. His words had fallen on deaf ears.

" _No."_ He wouldn't allow it. Couldn't.

Before he realised it, he had planted himself in front of the stable's only exit. "You can't do this, Dutch. Trust me. I've never asked much, but this... _please_. We can't." He saw shock flit across Hosea and Charles' faces, but he didn't care.

Dutch looked down at him, expression unreadable. "Arthur." His voice carried a dangerous tone now. Arthur recognised it. It was one usually reserved for their most disobedient of victims. "We are going to be robbing this train. Seeing that you are so averse to it, however, you may stay behind and keep these two company."

His heart sank. "Dutch!" Any last hope he had was vanishing quickly. Rains Fall couldn't have been right, could he? Had he always meant nothing to Dutch?

"Now, would you kindly move out of the way?"

What were the last twenty years then?

"Dutch…" It came out a whisper. A plea.

 _"Now."_

His two feet moved on their own. Dutch took off at once, hollering for the rest of the gang to join him. He stared after him, watched him disappear into the distance, but his eyes saw nothing. Felt nothing.

Empty despair clawed at him. It was dragging him down, deeper and deeper into some dark hole, where escape was impossible. His hands shook like leaves. What had he been thinking?

He should have known this would happen.

That he was powerless.

Utterly powerless.

Ethan.

Sean.

Hosea.

 _Lenny…_

They were going to die - Ethan was already dead - and he could do nothing. Just watch. Watch it happen all over again.

 _His punishment._

" _GODDAMN IT ALL!"_ He kicked the stable wall so violently that the horses neighed with fright. Who did this? Who had decided to give him this second life? Curse it all. Curse his idiocy, curse this world, curse every-

"Arthur!" Someone was shaking him. "Arthur, are you alright? Snap to your senses, my boy!" His breath came in ragged gasps. It felt like someone had stabbed a knife in his ribcage, twisting and turning it every time he wanted for air.

"...Hosea?" A quiet sob escaped him. "I…" He hated how weak he sounded. How pathetic he was. "I...I'm...sorry."

Trembling, he pushed the man away, turning, staggering unevenly towards his horse. No matter what Dutch had said, he still couldn't leave the gang to rob that train all by themselves. Lenny had only lived last time because he was there.

Vision dark and clouded, he tried reaching for his horse's reins. Where...where were they? His fingers passed through rough and matted fur, leather, wood...

Something seized his arm. Gripped his shoulders. He felt himself being spun around to face someone.

"Arthur." He averted his eyes, unwilling to meet Charles' gaze. "Arthur, we need to talk." The man's words were stern, but full of a genuine concern.

He never felt more terrible in his life. "I…can't," he mumbled. "Not right now." Suppressing another sob, he wrenched back his arm, and somehow managed to climb onto the horse. He was being irrational. He knew it. But he had to keep pushing, one way or another. He urged his horse forwards, as fast as he could, hoping he would be able to catch the others in time.

A heavy feeling hung over his heart as he rode. It was a new feeling. The feeling of death. The _possibility_ of death. He didn't know why or how he had never noticed it before. Maybe it was Dutch's unshakable confidence. His unwavering ego. It instilled in everyone some kind of ridiculous belief that they were invincible, that no one on heaven or earth could ever touch them.

To Dutch Van Der Linde, there was no such thing as failure. Everything he said was right. Everything he said was absolute.

The Blackwater heist? _Mac, Davey, and Jenny._

The Grays and Braithwaites? _Sean._

The Saint Denis bank robbery? _Hosea and Lenny._

All part of the plan. All part of the fucking plan, right? What a cruel, cruel joke.

"Arthur!" Lenny had spotted him approaching the gang. The boy bounced up and down on his horse as he waved an arm in pure joy. "It's Arthur!"

"Sorry," Arthur mumbled. His head still throbbed and his throat was parched, but the cold from the journey had calmed him a bit. "I'm late to the party."

Up in front, Micah swerved back, lips twisted into a mocking smile. "Well, well, look who finally decided to join us," he teased. "You're just in time."

Arthur said nothing.

Upon Micah's comment, Dutch also turned to greet him. "Glad to have you, Mr. Morgan." It was as if nothing ever happened. "Mr. Williamson and Mr. Escuela are fixing up the dynamite below. The train should arrive any minute."

He nodded, still silent.

Micah sniggered. "Cat got your tongue, Morgan?"

"Quiet," Dutch ordered. "They've finished below. Everyone, get your bandanas on and your guns ready. Remember the plan. And _no mistakes._ "

Bill and Javier rode up the hill, rejoining the rest of the gang. They turned their horses around and one by one, lined up like soldiers across the cliff. Breaths bated in anticipation, not a single person spoke.

The grating sound of wheels on rails reverberated in the distance. It grew louder and louder, accompanied by shrill whistling, and soon, thick smoke filled the air. The train burst out from the side of the mountain, unstoppable as it roared down the tracks to its destination. Each cab had been painted across with black and yellow colours that spelled out the name "CORNWALL."

Arthur swallowed hard, hands tightening into fists. Seeing the name was enough to fill with him a sickening dread. Now that he thought about it, Cornwall and Dutch weren't so different. They were both great men, and slaves to their fierce ambitions; unforgiving, ruthless to the very end. Like Dutch, Cornwall had probably thought himself untouchable. He surrounded himself with money and men while Dutch surrounded himself with blind loyalty and command.

"Here we go…" Micah's excitement was palpable. The man leaned forward in apprehension as the target rapidly approached the rigged explosives.

With a thundering boom, the locomotive was blasted several meters into the air. Fire broke out as steel and debris flew in every direction. Arthur squinted into the chaos, wondering just how many lives had been lost in that single explosion.

Dutch shouted a command, charging ahead as the rest of the gang followed close behind. Arthur sighed and pulled up his bandana. He decided he would keep an eye on young Lenny. "With me, Lenny!" he called.

The others had already entered the cabs, ransacking every nook and cranny as they killed anyone in their way. As ordered, Lenny stuck close to him the entire time. The two carved their own path through the train, from the middle of the train to the very end. With every life taken, Arthur tried to convince himself - albeit somewhat unsuccessfully - that it had to be done to protect Lenny.

How had he killed so thoughtlessly before? Moreover, why was he feeling such terrible guilt now?

"Them fools won't come out." Bill's irritable voice. The gang had gathered in front of the final cab. Arthur stepped out to join them. He remembered this scene too. A single glance was enough for anyone to tell that this particular cab had been built like a steel fortress. It held something terribly valuable inside and Dutch would stop at nothing to get his hands on it.

"We have some dynamite left, don't we?" Dutch asked. "Rig it. They don't seem to want to come out, so we'll just have to make them."

"With pleasure." Bill walked up to the cart, sliding a single stick of dynamite through the handle. He took careful steps back as he pulled out his gun and aimed it at the explosive.

"Now," Dutch shouted, loud enough for the men in the cab to hear. "Unless you got a death wish, I'd step back, fellers." He nodded at Bill. "Mr. Williamson."

The sound of Bill's gun roared in tandem with the explosion. A giant hole had been created where the door once was.

"Alright. Now, come on out here!" Dutch continued. "We don't want to kill you...we just wanna rob your boss."

One by one, the men came out, hands in the air. Javier and Bill rounded them up immediately, forcing them to cower next to a boulder.

"Get on up there. Search that train."

Arthur entered after Micah and Lenny. The two ignored him, having preoccupied themselves with the lock box near the door. If Arthur remembered correctly, that box held one of Cornwall's invoices. Something about sugar plantations and a fancy new European boat. But that wasn't the reason why he was in here.

He made an instant beeline to the back of the cab, past the desk and to the large bookcase on the right. Crouching, he pulled open the doors to the drawer on the bottom shelf. A metal box lay hidden right where he remembered it. Inside, would be a fat stack of bearer bonds that he would hand straight to Dutch…

" _Take this...I don't need it anymore."_

" _What's that?"_

" _There's a chest in them caves. In the back to the left. Hidden under a wagon. Dutch's chest. With all our money. I know John told you I knew where it was."_

Money that would never be used for the betterment of the gang. Money stained with the blood of fallen gang members. Money...that should, and _would_ , now be used for the right thing.

If Dutch had his own chest, then Arthur was to have his as well. These bonds, he would keep half of them. He didn't know what he was saving up for just yet, but one thing was for certain. It sure as hell wasn't Tahiti.

"Think I got 'em," he announced to Micah and Lenny. "A good stack of bonds right here."

They sighed in relief. "Nice."

"Well thank God. Come on."

The others were waiting as they exited the cab. Dutch broke off and headed straight for him. "What did you find?" he asked, expectant.

"These…" Arthur reached into his satchel, making sure he only pulled out part of the stack. He extended a hand and offered them to Dutch.

"Very nice." The man nodded with approval as he paged through them. "Bearer bonds," he continued. "I think we can probably sell these pretty easily." He lifted a hand and rested it on Arthur's shoulder. His eyes were as warm as his smile. "Thank you, Arthur. Well done."

A jubilant elation surged through his entire being. This…this was what he lived for. Everyone knew. Everyone knew that he was a reliable man; a man of his word. After all, Arthur Morgan was Dutch's prized pony and he always got the job done...

" _Who amongst you...is with me?"_

 _One by one, they circled each other, no longer family, no longer allies. It was time to decide. Who was wrong?_

" _And who...is betraying me?"_

 _Who was right?_

" _Bill, Javier. Think. Think for yourselves."_

 _Who would shoot first?_

" _He's lying."_

" _He's lying…"_

 _He stared straight into a pair of deep and dark eyes. Dutch's gratitude? No. Couldn't be. They were the barrels of pistols, leveled at his head. Cold, merciless, uncaring...just like their owner._

"Arthur, I trust that you can take care of this." _Stop. Stop it. Snap out of it, you fool._ "The train and the men, they're yours to decide."

"You're gonna leave all this to Morgan?" Micah complained. _Reality. Focus on reality._ "Just look at him. He's clearly lost his mind again!"

"No…" he rasped, hoarsely. _Again. Louder._ "No. I got this." Sharp, raw pain tore through the palm of his hands. He tried to focus on it; use it to dull the anguish of everything else.

"Whatever it is between you two, stop it." The usual irritation had returned to Dutch's voice. "I'm heading back to camp and so should all of you. We will be leaving this mountain, first thing tomorrow morning."

Someone approached him as the others thundered off into the distance. "Has ol' Arthur Morgan finally gone soft?" _Micah._

He lifted his head to look into the face of his most hated enemy. All the words in the world were not enough to describe the sheer amount of loathing he had for this man. Yet, revenge wasn't what he was here for. He knew better than that.

Death bred distrust. Death bred betrayal. Death had bred...more death.

"Not soft," he corrected. "Just...careful."

"You know what's careful, Mr. Morgan?" A pistol had appeared in Micah's hand. He aimed it at one of Cornwall's men. "Making sure that these men don't get no chance to rat."

At his words, they whimpered in fright, backing up all they could against the rock behind. "Please don't kill us!" One of them stammered. "We won't say a word! We promise!"

Micah only laughed. "You can promise that over my dead body."

Arthur shouted. _"Wait, don't!"_

His plead came too late. The sound of gunfire nearly burst his eardrums as the men slumped dead before him, one after the other.

"Thank me later, Morgan." Cackling, Micah turned his horse back around and disappeared into the distance.

Arthur sighed. He was too tired, too drained by the day's events to even muster up the slightest bit of animosity.

He raised his palms to his face, seeing now the deep, angry welts his nails had made earlier. Dutch... _what was Dutch?_ Thinking about him was quickly becoming an impossible task. He couldn't understand anything - not about the man, not about himself, not even his own feelings towards it all.

Regardless, it was best that he return to camp before nightfall. He whistled for his horse. If anything, he could enjoy a moment's peace and silence on the way back.

Pearson was the only person outside when he returned. The camp cook was slouched against the wall in his makeshift kitchen, enjoying a bottle of navy rum. Arthur rode straight past him into the stables.

More than anything else, he was craving the vacant embrace of sleep. It would only be a temporary relief, but one he desperately needed. He parked his horse next to Dutch's then slid off.

"Mister...mister...could you...could you spare some food?"

The voice came out of the blue. He turned around and squinted into the back of the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he caught a glimpse of someone bound to a tall, wooden pole.

He recognised that someone at once. "Kieran?!" he exclaimed loudly.

"You...you know me, sir?"

Where had the boy come from? Wait...the others had gone on that O'Driscoll raid last night. Someone must have caught him running off just like he did last time.

"Beg all you want, O'Driscoll, but there ain't gonna be no food tonight." A figure emerged from the other corner of the stable. "I was wondering when you would be back, Arthur."

He froze where he stood. _"...Charles."_

"Don't run off on me this time," the other continued. "Listen. I know it ain't been a year since we first met, but you've been acting off. And...it's worrying."

Charles took a step forward into the moonlight. Arthur could see his eyes now, filled with a solemn and thoughtful concern.

He sucked in a tight, anxious breath. Just earlier, he had considered telling Charles everything. But, this. All of this was supposed to be his burden to bear. His and _his_ only.

"Arthur, speak to me." Charles' voice was softer. "I won't tell anyone. You know that."

"You…" His mind searched frantically for an excuse. _Any excuse._ "You wouldn't believe me."

" _Arthur."_ It was a quiet, hurting plea.

He could bear it no longer. His remaining strength left him, his knees gave way, and he collapsed onto the ice cold ground, burying his face in his hands. "I don't know," he heard himself whimper. "I don't know anymore…"

What had happened to him these past two days? Where was the unstoppable, dangerous, and fierce outlaw that defined his very being? Why had he become so weak, so pitiful, so miserable...

A hand rested on his shoulder. The touch was soft, as if asking for permission to be there. His throat and chest burned like fire.

Knowledge was no blessing, it was a curse. He saw and he knew. The events were playing themselves out, one after the other, exactly how he remembered them. It had made him vulnerable, desperate, scared as he counted the days down to each inevitable death.

"I know…" He forced himself to speak. He could barely recognise his own voice. "Charles, I know…everything. I know where we're headed, who dies, how I die... _will_ die…"

Silence.

He continued. "All of this...it falls apart. It's already falling apart, we was never family…"

Stopped to gasp for air.

"And I can't do nothing. I tried, but it's impossible. It'll happen all over again, it's happening, and I…I..."

He fought desperately against tears. He couldn't remember the last time he cried. Not when his mother died. Not when his father died. Not even when Mary, who he still loved so terribly, had shunned him for someone else...

Charles didn't speak for awhile. Even Kieran was silent, probably bewildered by the events and too afraid to make a sound.

There was an unusual solace to be found in the cold and calm of tonight. No one really moved, or spoke. It was as if time itself had stopped, granting with it a brief lapse of mercy.

After what felt like an eternity, Arthur sensed Charles step back. He heard rustling, followed by something being pressed gently into his hands. It was a handkerchief.

" _I believe you."_

* * *

 **Note:** I will be traveling a bit in the next few weeks as well as returning to a full-time job afterwards. However, I do plan on keeping this story updated at least once a month, maybe quicker, maybe slower, depending on my schedule. Once again, thank you all so much for your encouragement and support!

The following are my responses to some of the guest reviews because I can't directly PM them (every one of you are awesome, by the way!).

 **WestReader:** Hey! You're right, that absolutely is a personal interpretation. Part of the beauty of this masterpiece of a story is that even if everything started and ended elegantly, many things are still left ambiguous. I love that because it means there can be so many different takeaways of the game. And why we're able to have such wonderful conversations like these.

Personally, I do think it's a bit of both. Arthur has always prided himself on his loyalty and his unshakable ideals. John breaking away from the gang demonstrated that he was disloyal which Arthur hated. But I believe his resentment was twofold (not including the fact John abandoned his wife and son). One, that John was not a man of his word because he broke the code (loyalty). Two, that he himself COULDN'T be disloyal. He shows in the game, if you do the final Mary Linton quest and I would 100% believe even before they broke up, that he desperately wants to run away with her but cannot bring himself to do so because that's not the man he believes he is.

Anyways, that's also my opinion as well! Thank you for sharing and for your kind words! I hope I do not disappoint!

 **Cassandwiches:** I've received a lot of PMs asking what might happen to one character or another. For the most part, I am still planning this story's journey, but I definitely want to deliver the best experience I can! So I can't say for sure right now.

 **JustLurking:** Thank you for bringing this up! I responded to Brenscot1229's review directly so I'll share a bit here. Dutch is a mixed bag for me. You're absolutely right when you say that Arthur's love and loyalty for Dutch carried him all the way up to the very end. I would say it is one of his major internal conflicts (Mary likely being another) and it will be explored in this fic.

I don't think Dutch ever really changes, but that his true colours began to show under pressure. Of course, there are a lot of factors that contribute to this. Hosea's death. Micah's manipulation. Arthur's doubt. However, I am currently replaying the game for a second time to better understand the story and characters (doing a separate write-up as well) and there are a lot of things that stand out to me about Dutch. One, that he doesn't really tolerate disobedience even when he says he "never forced anyone to stay in the gang." (He actually gets very upset when people start leaving, especially Pearson in Chapter VI). Two, that he believes that he is invincible and is a bit of a narcissist ("Stay strong. Stay with _ME_." He also makes a slip in Chapter III: "I, I think I...I mean, _we,_ are gonna be okay. Finally, pay attention to his speech when they're escaping Cornwall the first time in Valentine). Three, that he believes in his ideals above all else. He wants a "free country" and he hates law. He refuses to see that the world is changing while Arthur does. This directly ties into his death speech to John in the first game ("My whole life, John, all I ever did was fight"). His death in that game also demonstrates how much of a control freak he is to the very end. No one decides how he does anything, not even how he dies. These traits of his probably weren't very prominent before the events of the game. This is likely because there was Hosea by his side and also because things seemed to have gone fairly well for the gang before.

Does this mean he never cared for Arthur? No, probably not. Just that he ended up valuing other things over him in the end.

So, what would Arthur do? Well, Arthur still loves Dutch like a father. He's awfully conflicted and rightfully so. He could never hate him and would probably try to change him. Would Dutch listen? Who knows…


	4. Horseshoe Overlook

" _I believe you."_ Three words. It was just three words.

Quiet, gentle, and promising.

At first, Arthur felt relief. Perhaps he hadn't been so ridiculous and pitiful. After all, Charles was still here. The man had listened to his ramblings and was yet to dismiss him a lunatic like any other sane person would.

Then he remembered Dutch's apathetic expressions. Micah's relentless brutality. Ethan's death.

What did it matter if Charles believed him or not? The ball was already rolling. He had seen it himself. Things couldn't be changed. The man was better off leaving, running, and getting as far away as he could before everything fell into shambles.

Oh, what had he done? The only thing his pathetic temperament had accomplished the past two days was to worry everyone around him. Now, he might have even put Charles into danger.

There was no denying it. His weakness had caused him to make a grave mistake. Charles had absolutely no part to play in all this. " _Charles."_ Springing to his two feet, he spun around and slammed two hands upon the man's shoulders. "Charles, listen to me. You need to get the hell out of here. Now. Before all of this…"

A deep frown tugged at the end of Charles' lips. "Have you gone mad, Arthur?" he said, incredulous. "I ain't going anywhere."

"You must!" Hollow panic choked him from the inside. Charles would die, die brutally, and it was all because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "You…" His mind whirled. How would Charles die? Shot? Stabbed? Hung?

 _Betrayed?_

Pale blotches of white began to dot his vision. He felt he could faint any second.

"Arthur, get a hold of yourself!" The raw anger in Charles' voice was so out of place that it shocked Arthur back into reality. He stepped back, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He tried to push away the bloody visions, the ghastly deaths.

"...Sorry," he mumbled, ashamed.

Charles sighed a heavy sigh. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes, leaning against the pole behind him.

"You know," he began, tone somber. "I told you before that my mother was taken away. My father and I never knew what happened to her. That was probably why he took to the drink."

Arthur nodded, silent.

"She told me something once, when I was very young. The Indians, we all believe in something called the 'Great Spirit.' It's like God, the one that the Reverend's supposed to talk about. The Great Spirit, it knows and sees everything. Sometimes we look to it for guidance."

Charles continued, deep in thought. "I think...the Great Spirit might have been watching over you," he said. "My mother shared many stories of its benevolence. Perhaps it also chose to intervene in your life."

"That's stupid," Arthur blurted out. "I'm just a fool. Something like that ain't got no business with me."

"It ain't stupid." Charles' expression was so serious that Arthur couldn't help but fall quiet again. "I'm told that there's been all kinds of occurrences. Sometimes, the Great Spirit takes on the form of a human, the forest, or even an animal-"

 _An animal?_

"Wait." It couldn't be, could it? If he closed his eyes, he could still see the buck grazing far away. Compared to the memory's clarity, all else seemed like a dream gone horribly wrong.

"You saw something, didn't you?" It wasn't a question.

"I suppose."

The slightest hint of a smile graced Charles' face. "It seems that the Great Spirit saw it fitting to give you a second chance."

Arthur cast his gaze downwards. Even with this new realistion, it bore no impact on the situation. The Great Spirit couldn't guide his actions, tell him whether he was doing the right or wrong thing, or even if he was headed in the proper direction.

"Alright." Charles struck a fist against the palm of his hand. Startled by the sudden enthusiasm, Arthur raised his head. "We won't get anywhere if you keep moping about," Charles said. "Let's tackle one problem at a time."

"What do you mean?"

He heard Charles draw in a deep breath. "I think, we should start with the obvious." The words were unexpectedly grim. Arthur found himself suddenly bracing for what would come next. "I'm very sorry for asking this, but in your memories...who do we lose?"

At the question, he felt his insides twist. All the dreadful memories he had managed to shove into some deep and dark corner of his mind were rising to the surface. At the time, they had somehow been bearable. In a brief, but painful process, he would recount every detail and every feeling in his journal. It was his escape and his solace.

" _Sean_."

Little did he know then, it was Sean's death that marked the beginning of the end. He missed the Irish bastard, but still he told himself that Dutch knew what he was doing. Dutch always knew best. Dutch always had a plan.

" _Hosea."_

Why had he agreed to the bank job again? Every fiber of his being screamed no, but he went forward all the same, the loyal dog he was. Then and there, it cost them nearly everything.

In fact, it had.

" _Lenny,"_ he whispered.

Poor lad didn't even have the time to react. Two goddamn Pinkertons behind a corner. One second, he was shouting and the next…

Arthur knew it was over for Hosea the moment Milton got his hands on the poor man. But, Lenny. It was unexpected and it was cruel. When it happened, he could scarce believe it. With the Pinkertons in hot pursuit, he crumpled to his knees. Grieved, he reached out, shaking the empty shell of the brightest kid he ever knew.

Wake up, Lenny. _Wake up. Goddamn it, wake up, why won't you?!_

Yet, like the blasted fool he was, he pressed on. Everything was falling apart before his very eyes, but still he held tight. Indeed, it had been like trying to grip a crystal ball. He cradled it, clutched at it, doing all he could to keep its shape when the truth was, it had shattered into a million pieces so long ago.

 _An impossible task._

"Anyone else?" He must have paused long enough for Charles to urge him to continue.

Who else? There had to be someone. _Someone else..._

" _Now I wish there was something I could do to make the two of you get along better."_

" _Well that's easy. Make him change."_

" _Very funny._

 _...What is that?"_

 _A scream, full of raw, unadulterated terror._

" _It's Kieran!"_

" _What the hell have they done to him?"_

Kieran Duffy. Just when he had started liking the boy too. At the very least, it had been an instant for Lenny. What was done to Kieran, however, was nothing short of pure savagery and brutality.

"Kieran." Unchecked anger in his delivery.

The Van Der Linde gang would never forgive the misdeeds of the O'Driscolls. Never mind what had happened to Dutch's lover, to Sadie, or even him, there was no denying the fact that Colm and his gang were the worst of the worst.

Like leader, like follower. They killed, robbed, and raped anyone in their way. To Colm, his men were indispensable tools and they reveled in the fact. There was not a single inch of goodness to be found within them.

...All except one. No. _Two._

"Um...w-what?" Just like before, the stammer came straight out of the blue.

Arthur nearly slapped himself in the face. They had completely forgotten about Kieran's presence. Tied to one of the stable's supporting poles, the boy must have been quietly listening all along.

"Kieran?" It didn't take long for Charles put two and two together. "But...he's an O'Driscoll."

"I t-t-told you...I ain't one of them…" The usual dejection had returned to Kieran's voice. "I told you…"

"Wait, Charles," Arthur called out. "We can talk about him later." He took a couple steps towards the stable's exit, beckoning for the man to join him. It wasn't that he didn't trust Kieran, but now was not the proper time or place. "It's Sean, Hosea, and Lenny we should be more worried about."

"What were the biggest causes?"

Arthur frowned. It was a simple question; one that he thought he had all the answers to. Yet confronted with it now, he found that he had no idea where to begin. There were so many possibilities, so many factors, that it would be impossible to blame it on any single thing.

Nevertheless, it was all too easy to direct his bitter feelings at one source.

" _Micah."_

"Micah?"

"He was the rat, Charles. In the end, he sold us out to the Pinkertons."

"I knew it." There was no surprise to be found in Charles' voice. "I've been watching the man for as long as I've been in the gang. I'm not usually one for insults, but trust me when I say this. He's scum, Arthur."

"You ain't gotta tell me that."

"So, we get rid of him?"

"I've…" Arthur trailed off. He would be lying if he said he hadn't considered the option before. "I don't know. Dutch trusts Micah. The thing is, Micah saved his life. The Reverend did too, and you see how Dutch still keeps him around, as useless as that ol' priest is."

"Seems it ain't that simple." Charles looked as troubled as Arthur felt. "And murdering one of our own is something Dutch would never approve of."

"...Right."

"And honestly, neither do I."

Earlier in the day, a certain thought had occurred to him. Now, the more he reflected upon it, the more ridiculous it seemed.

 _Twenty years._

He had ran with the gang for over twenty years. And in all those years, before the events of Blackwater, the gang had never faced any significant losses. Well, Dutch's lover was murdered by Colm O'Driscoll and he never knew how Bessie had gone. But for as long as Arthur could remember, they always survived no matter what. Death hadn't even the slightest chance.

It was rather foolish, actually. They risked their lives almost every single day. Countless times that they nearly lost someone. Even then, death remained a foreign concept to the Van Der Linde gang. So when it finally struck, they were far from prepared. Things crumbled, and they crumbled fast.

Killing Micah would be simple. It would be satisfying too. Oh, how he so desperately wanted to pull out his pistol, march over to the hut across, and put a well-deserved bullet through the bastard's eyes.

But he couldn't.

Not now, at least. He had to save people first, not cause more bloodshed. And somewhere in there, he wanted to be the better man. A good man. The realisation came at the cost of his life, but he had been wrong all along. Just like Charles, he too possessed a moral compass; one he always ignored.

"I think...I should prioritise keeping everyone alive."

"You mean _we_ should prioritise keeping everyone alive."

Arthur groaned. Charles Smith, a man too good for this cruel world. "Yeah, yeah. _We._ The thing is, the Pinkertons are already all over our trail. Robbing Cornwall's train was the first big mistake."

"I heard."

"It'll be sometime before they catch up to us. We have to find a way to run, and run far." In the end, it wasn't just Micah. It was law in a world that didn't want their kind no more. "We're wanted men, Charles. We're sinners, marked for life. But I think, Dutch was right in a way. He wanted money, because somewhere in the back of his goddamned mind, he envisioned a life for every one of us. A life where we could live out the rest of our days in peace. No worries. No fear. Just family."

An unexpected chuckle escaped Charles. "You're beginning to sound like him."

"Shut up." Though it came out a growl, he couldn't keep the amusement from his voice. "But, that's why I've started my own stash. Dutch always hides our savings somewhere near camp. Money that will probably never be used for all of us. So if things start going poorly, we'll still have a way out."

"Not a bad idea." Charles nodded his approval. "I'd be glad to contribute."

"That's...more than I could ever ask for." He leaned his head back and shut his eyes. The exhaustion was finally beginning to settle in. He could feel the heaviness in every limb. His neck and shoulders ached, his spine was stiff.

"It's been a long day." Noticing Arthur's enervated state, Charles seemed to come to a decision. He pulled a few tools from his saddle and began to make one last round around the stable. "Let's call it for tonight, then."

"Sure." Sleep was coming, and it was coming fast. He wasn't sure if he could make it back to his room. But, still he had to say it. "By the way, thanks...for everything."

He received no response for a moment. Then Charles reappeared from the darkness, giving him a tiny shrug. "Just watching out for a friend."

This time, it was Arthur's turn to smile. Perhaps choosing to share his dilemma with Charles had placed the man in danger. Perhaps it had made the future uncertain, or unimaginably worse. But as someone who only ever knew how to bear his burdens alone, it was certainly a welcome change.

That night, he dreamed no more. It was a restful and peaceful sleep, one of many he hoped would come.

* * *

Dutch's words came to life as early as the crack of dawn. Boxes rattled, Grimshaw shouted, and the wagons creaked. Now that the weather had shown them a bout of mercy, there was no better time for the Van Der Linde gang to move on.

"Arthur, start packing!" The door slammed open. Hosea had woken him for the second day in a row. "We want to be off this mountain and away from the snow by midday."

"Alright!" Grunting with effort, Arthur pushed himself off his bed and to his feet. He hadn't much, anyways. His satchel, his lantern, and a few worn pieces of sheets he called a bed. He grasped the end of one and began to fold them together into a neat pile.

It took all of two minutes to check the entire room. The others might have liked lugging endless junk everywhere they went, but all he ever cared for were his satchel and hat. Tucking the bedroll underneath his arm, he left the cabin to join the others outside.

"So the question is, where now?" As usual, Dutch consulted Hosea on their latest dilemma.

"I told you, we should set up camp in Horseshoe Overlook near Valentine." Although it wasn't the first he heard this exchange, Arthur found himself interpreting it in an entirely new way. It seemed it was Hosea who had always been ready with a solution. "We'll be able to hide out there no problem as long as keep our noses clean."

Dutch spread his arms out in eager anticipation. "Well then, let's go! Clean noses, and everything else." He turned, motioning at Arthur, who was already making a beeline towards the last wagon in line. "You're in that one, with Hosea. I know you two like to talk about the good old days…"

 _And everything that's gone wrong with you._ Already out of hearing distance, his mind completed the final phrase of Dutch's sentence. Hosea followed close behind.

"Looks like it's you and me, Arthur." In a single motion, Hosea had climbed into the passenger's seat. "This'll be a long ride."

"Just like the good old days, huh?" Arthur moved towards the back of the wagon and tossed his bedroll inside. But right before he joined the old man, something suddenly came to mind. "Wait a moment, Hosea."

He changed direction, taking a few steps back to observe the entire structure. As suspected, one of the rear wheels was beginning to become loose. He gave it a few good smacks to secure it back into place.

"Something wrong?" Hosea quipped as Arthur rejoined him.

"Naw. I just noticed one of the wheels were a bit off."

"Good eye!"

Arthur shrugged, reaching out to grab the horses' reins. The others were already far ahead and he was eager as anyone else to escape the snowy weather. With a sudden burst of energy, he shouted a command. Then, off the wagon went.

They spent the first half of the trip mostly quiet. Arthur kept his eyes peeled, mind blank as he watched the scenery gradually change around him. Hosea managed to sneak in some shut-eye, hands folded on lap, and body leaned back. Then as the wagon stuttered onto the first patches of yellowing grass, something seemed to awaken in the old man.

Hosea straightened and turned to face the broad horizon, almost as if eagerly awaiting something. His gaze had become distant, focused on something far, far away. Though curious, Arthur said nothing for a time. It wasn't until he noticed the forlorn expression on the man's features did he decide to break the silence.

"Enjoying the view?"

"Oh, ah." At the question, Hosea seemed to remember himself. His shoulders sagged he reverted back into a more relaxed position. "Sorry, I lost myself a bit back there." He chuckled warmly. "You see, I was up in this bit of a country with Bessie long ago."

 _Bessie._ Arthur only ever heard bits and pieces, but the woman who had stolen Hosea's heart must have been mighty impressive.

"I see."

"I was always particularly fond of this stretch of road," Hosea said. "I was hoping to catch a glimpse of it. There is this very tiny creek that runs next to it. And alongside the same creek, there is the prettiest array of flowers growing alongside it. Sunflowers, poppies, lilies, you name it. Bessie loved it."

Though the man appeared perfectly content, the touch of sadness in his voice was not lost on Arthur. It was moments like this that reminded him how much he loved Hosea like a father. There was something terribly genuine about the old man; something that he never quite felt from Dutch.

"But, never mind me." Hosea chuckled again. "Seems like the older I get, the more I find myself thinking about the past." He leaned towards Arthur, reaching to lay a hand on his shoulder. "I've been meaning to ask, my boy. How are you feeling?"

He had anticipated the question even before they started their journey downwards, but once again, he found himself at a loss for answers. Should he tell Hosea everything, like he did Charles?

"I'm...fine."

It wasn't a matter of trust. Hosea could tell him to walk blindfolded right into a swarm of Pinkertons and he would do it without any fear or worry. But he had already taken a huge risk with Charles. And unlike Charles, Hosea had ran with Dutch for so long that casting doubt on his lifelong partner without precedence would undeniably lead to problems.

He hadn't any doubt Hosea would believe his words. That, he was absolutely sure of. Yet the very first promise he had made to himself was to save as many people as possible. And causing a rift between two of the most beloved people in his life was perhaps not the greatest idea right now.

"Sorry for worrying you," he mumbled.

"Why are you apologising?" Hosea sounded confused. "You can tell me, Arthur. Something has been troubling you and I'm concerned. So is Dutch, but he'd never tell you that."

"It's just…" Suddenly, he was glad he didn't have to look the man in the eye right now. "The robbery with Cornwall's train had me worried, that's all."

"You were very adamant about that," Hosea continued. "I've never seen you so upset before."

Arthur bit the inside of his lip, silent.

"Though, I must say. It's made me a little proud." A barely audible sigh. "You've always listened to us without so much as a complaint. Sometimes, I see you writing furiously in that journal of yours and it's clear that you're bothered. But there's never a peep from you, about how you truly feel."

"You're thinking too much, old man." It was an automatic response. "Nothing bothers me."

Hosea laughed, louder than normal. "Ah, there you go again, my boy. Don't belittle yourself so much. Your opinion is as valuable as anyone else's."

Of all the things Arthur had expected on this trip, getting lectured by Hosea was not one of them. But all it showed was the naked truth - and the sad fact - that he knew next to nothing about himself.

They passed the rest of the trip making small talk about what lied in the West, about the Pinkertons and Cornwall, and the occasional revisitation of the past. They talked about hobbies, exchanged hunting tips, and how getting old really sucked. By the end of the trip, Arthur had become overcome with determination. No matter what was to come, he could not and would not accept a future without Hosea.

Funny how the true value of something only came to light after it was gone. He would not lose Hosea again.

The sun barely peeked over the horizon when they finally pulled into Horseshoe Overlook. Bill was the first to spot them. He immediately stomped over. Arthur noticed a gigantic hammer in one hand. "You men are REALLY LATE!" Bill yelled, waving the tool around. "We've already set up Dutch's tent!"

"Sorry, sorry." Hosea gave a cheerful wave, then exited the wagon. "Arthur here's getting real old. Can't drive the horses like he used to."

"Very funny." He pulled the reins together and slid off his seat. "I'll get the horses settled in first."

"Better be quick about it, Morgan." As always, Bill didn't sound too pleased. Then again, the man himself was the furthest thing from pleasant. "We could use an extra hand getting situated."

Arthur waved him off. It was like this every time they moved. Moaning and complaining until everything was right where everyone liked. Then Pearson's utensils went missing, Strauss' back ached from a twig on the ground, or Grimshaw couldn't "get no shit done!"

Just like that, a couple of days passed. He made the occasional trip to Valentine in between, mostly for supplies, but there was no rest for anyone until all tents and utilities were where they belonged.

His tent was always one of the last things on the priority list. Right as he was setting down the final nails, he saw Grimshaw approach him from the corner of his eye. "Arthur, I've got this," she announced.

"What?"

Uncouth as ever, she snatched the tools straight out of his hand. "That terrible Reverend of ours has gone missing. I need you to go find him." She pointed in a general direction.

"Not again…" Had it been morphine? Alcohol? Or both? With Swanson, it was always impossible to tell.

Either way, disobeying Grimshaw would be worse than disobeying Dutch. "I got him." He sighed in exasperation, then got to his feet and whistled for his horse. Luckily, he had an inkling where the priest would be. Some rundown shack near the railroad, playing away what little money he had left. No money at all, if he was being honest here.

The accuracy of his memories still startled him every time. As he drew near his destination, he could hear Swanson's mad chortle. It was soon cut short by a scream as the Reverend discovered his losing hand.

Eager to get things over with, Arthur slammed open the door, a tad more violently than intended.

Swanson looked up from his pile of cards. "Mr. Morgan!" he exclaimed upon seeing him. "I took your advice, sir. I took your advice."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up and come home." Arthur reached out to grab him, but Swanson slapped his hand away. In an awkward motion, the priest staggered to his feet, knocking over his chair as he gripped Arthur by the shoulders.

"I took your advice, sir," he repeated. "I have removed myself from Morpheus' embrace. No more shall I sink, sir. I am free. I am free!"

"Whatever you say, Reverend." He wrapped an arm around the man's chest and began to walk backwards and out of the barn. Swanson struggled underneath his grip, but the man was too far gone to put up a proper fight. "I'll see you folks later."

Seeing that his chance at easy money was vanishing, one of the poker players immediately got to his feet. "Hey, you can't just walk away like that!" he called out, indignant. "That man owes us money!"

"Drunk out of his mind, and he owes you money?" Arthur retorted. Goddamn Swanson, why couldn't the Reverend just sober up for once? "Just look at him!"

"Why can't we all just get along?" Swanson blurted out. "These are good men, Arthur. They're children of God. Children of God…" Right as the last word left his mouth, the man's eyes rolled up into his head and he was out like a candle.

Arthur snorted.

"Well, uh…" Seeing that the Reverend was in no condition to continue, the indignant player fell silent.

His partner spoke. "How's about you play in his place, huh? That seems fair."

"Fair?" Arthur shook his head. "I ain't got no time to be playing games." And he was certainly in no mood to be chasing down witnesses and stopping Swanson from a suicide attempt. "Good day, fellers."

Their faces filled with disappointment at his words, but to Arthur's relief, neither men decided to pursue the issue any further.

They watched him drag Swanson, rather forcibly, across the floor and out the doors. Once outside, he placed the unconscious priest onto his horse to begin his journey back. However, rather than riding through the forests directly back to camp, he chose to take the long route this time. With the hectic mess that were the past few days, there existed little time for him to ponder the real situation at hand.

After their talk back in the mountains, he had only been able to speak with Charles once. The man mentioned Pearson kept him busy hunting, but that he was always trying to think of a solution. He also told Arthur that he had warned to Kieran to keep his mouth shut, or "something arrow, something neck, something internal bleeding." Whatever the case was, Arthur was simply glad he wasn't on the man's bad side.

Eventually, the road split into two before him, one towards Valentine, and the other back to camp. He prepared to swerve his horse left when he suddenly noticed a familiar, hunched back man standing by the road.

"Penny for the blind? Penny for the blind!"

He wasn't sure how, but he remembered this old beggar. He had seen him a few times on the road, perhaps, but he stopped just once. Or maybe three? Either way, his donations were always met with weird and cryptic messages that he soon forgot.

"Yeah, sure." Clicking his teeth together, he ordered his horse to stop. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a quarter, stepping forward to drop it into the beggar's mug.

With an audible clang, the coin clattered to the very bottom. Arthur guessed it was the only donation that had been received all day. As he started to move away, the beggar's hand suddenly shot out and seized his wrist in a surprising display of strength.

He was pulled forward, so close he caught a whiff of something rancid and rotting. "You…" the beggar hissed. "You are not of this world."

Stunned at the unexpected turn in events, Arthur found himself at a loss of words. Not of this world? What did the old man mean?

 _Wait,_ was he suggesting...

"Face yourself. Embrace who you are." The man's words were softer, encouraging even. "Look not to how you lived before, but how you will live now."

"Face myself?" Arthur wasn't sure why or how, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this beggar held the answer to his every question. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "Explain yourself!"

"Look inwards." Unperturbed, the beggar continued to speak. "You have all that you need."

"I..." Shit, the man wasn't making any sense at all! Still, he couldn't just let such an opportunity slip by. He had to know. No, he _needed_ to know. "Am I doing the right thing?" he asked. "No, wait. Can everyone be saved?"

"You already have the answers you seek."

Arthur roared. "That don't tell me shit!"

"Mr. Morgan." Unexpectedly, the Reverend woke from his sleep. Arthur spun around. Swanson had lifted his head and was staring at straight at him. "Your journey, your path, will be just fine. You'll do what's right."

"Not you too!" This time, Arthur really did slap himself in the face. "This old man's telling me I already have the answers to all of life's greatest questions and you're telling me I'll do what's right? I just don't goddamn see it!"

"You do see." Swanson's sobriety was both unexpected and unsettling. The Reverend had spent so much of their journey drugged up one way or the other that Arthur could barely remember the person he was when he finally cleaned up his act. "You do see," Swanson said again. "You just can't quite admit it to yourself.

With an exaggerated snore, the man's eyelids drooped and he fell unconscious once more. Arthur sighed with heavy exasperation. Why couldn't he just get a straight answer for once?

He looked back. The blind man's expression seemed to suggest he had nothing more to say. Taking it as his sign to leave, Arthur pulled his wrist away then climbed back onto his horse. He glanced down one final time. "Well, thanks, I guess."

The blind man only smiled.

When Arthur looked back a minute later, the beggar was no longer there.

* * *

"Sweet dreams, Reverend." With a grunt, he tossed Swanson onto his bedroll. The man had cost him nearly his entire day, never mind his sanity.

"Agh!" Swanson began to wave his arms in the air like a confused child. "Mr. Morgan? Mr. Morgan? Where am I?"

"Right where you goddamn belong." This was beyond pathetic, for the both of them.

Uninvited, Grimshaw marched up. She shoved herself between Arthur and the Reverend. "Ugh, what happened?"

He responded to the question with a casual shrug. "The usual."

Swanson cried out. "Where are my Poker cards?!" The Reverend was nothing short of a pitiful wreck. Arthur almost felt bad for him. "I had a flush, I tell you! A straight flush!"

Something like pure disgust passed across Grimshaw's face. "You are utterly unbelievable, Mr. Swanson." Kneeling, she pressed two hands on the man's shoulders. They wrestled back and forth like mother and child, a sight so ridiculous it made Arthur laugh. "I'll make sure he gets the rest he needs. Thank you, Mr. Morgan."

"Sure." He watched them struggle a bit longer, then turned to leave. Though he would never say it, he was actually rather fond of the Reverend. The poor man had just taken the wrong turn, sometime, somewhere in life.

He spotted his tent a short distance away. True to her word, Grimshaw had placed all of his belongings right where he was accustomed to. His chest of clothes, at the foot of his bed. His table was an arm's length away, and his shaving kit two steps in front. His photographs, newspaper clippings, and even souvenirs were strung up around him. Seeing it all now made him realise that he was probably a lot more sentimental than he cared to admit.

He sat down and slipped a hand into his satchel for his journal. Even if the beggar's words remained a mystery, he felt they were important enough to record and reflect upon. And for the first time in what felt like years, Swanson had something insightful to contribute. Though, Arthur suspected the Reverend would remember nothing of the conversation.

His pen had barely met the page when shouting erupted in the distance. "They got Micah!"

Lenny. That was Lenny.

"Dutch! They got Micah!"

 _SHIT._

He forgot. He had forgotten one of the biggest things that happened when they first arrived here. When Dutch sent Micah and Lenny out to patrol ahead, they had gotten themselves into trouble. Lenny managed to escape, but Micah was thrown into jail.

"He, he's been arrested for murder! He was in Strawberry and..." Arthur saw Dutch ahead, joined by a few others who were still awake at the time.

"It's okay, son. Breathe…" Dutch raised his hands in an effort to calm Lenny.

The boy bent over, hands on knees as he gasped desperately for air. "They nearly lynched me. They...they got Micah in the sheriff's in Strawberry and there's talk of hanging him."

This was it! How hadn't the idea come to him earlier? This way, he could get rid of Micah without suspicion. What better way than to let the law deal with him? He opened his mouth to volunteer, but Dutch cut him to the chase.

"Bill, Javier. I need you to ride out immediately. Rescue Micah before he can be hung."

 _Wait, what?_ The startling change in events rendered Arthur speechless on the spot. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't what happened last time, he was sure of it.

Dutch turned around and their eyes met. "Arthur, why don't you take that kid into town?" he said. "Valentine, not Strawberry. And get him drunk. No crazy business."

Still reeling from before, Arthur barely heard himself murmur an agreement. The rest of the gang began to disperse, returning to their beds or assigned tasks. Soon, it was just young Lenny and him all alone in the dusk.

Lenny spoke. "We don't have to if you ain't feeling it, Arthur." The boy must have noticed his stricken state. Though, hiding his emotional turmoil hadn't exactly been his forte as of late. "It's getting dark, anyways."

"No." Arthur dismissed the suggestion at once. "We are hitting the saloon _tonight_." Goddamn, could he use a drink right now. "Wait for me right here. I'll grab my things and we'll be off."

In his eagerness to join the conversation earlier, he had left his satchel on his bed. He made a dash back to his tent, grabbed his pen and journal, and shoved them into his satchel. Then he swept his eyes around his surroundings, doing one final check for anything that might have been missed.

That was when he noticed a familiar, white letter laying upon his desk. His breath hitched in his throat. The fancy, beautifully-crafted handwriting made his heart stop and his blood run cold.

 _Mary Linton._

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse...

* * *

 **Note:** Sorry about the long delay! I am determined to see this story to the end, but life has not been kind to me lately. Updates may be slow and I deeply apologise for this.

It has also come to my attention that for those who use the FanFiction mobile app the story might require frequent updates. I think this is because every time I reread my writing, I always come out unsatisfied with one sentence or another. Then I go back to fix it on the spot. I apologise this for as well! I will try to keep the edits far less spontaneous.

Have a Happy New Year!

Once again, the following are my some of my responses to guest reviews! Thank you, everyone. You are all the best!

 **WestReader:** I think you're absolutely right, and that Dutch could not see that the world was changing until was too late. Arthur saw this far before he ever did and it was only when Dutch was backed into a corner by John did he realise that the world no longer held a place for him. Still, he refused to change and dubbed himself the "monster" that the law will forever try to pin things on. While the majority blame and hate Micah for everything that goes wrong, I believe that the true fault lies with Dutch.

Thank you for your reviews and engaging discussion! I think with so many people finishing the game and moving on, I'm very glad that there are others out there still willing to discuss this amazing game. RDRII will forever have a special place in my heart.

 **Vincent Reed:** That was a fantastic ramble! I love discussions like this, as WestReader mentioned, everyone has their own special interpretation of Dutch and that can also change with whether you've played the first game or not. The parallel you drew between Dutch and Cornwall is something I also noticed as well, but I think the reason that Dutch likes to see himself as different from Cornwall or even Colm O'Driscoll is that he has "a family." There are people he hold dear and everyone who runs with him are fiercely loyal instead of those being bought with money. The ironic part is that Dutch conducts himself similarly to Cornwall and Colm and even in the end, showed that he was willing to throw away men for his own goals just like those two.

Or, he could just be a crazy control freak, as you said. He would probably act no different if he was in Cornwall's position.

I am also of the mind that "Tahiti" was never realistic and that Dutch himself probably didn't buy into the dream. Even Arthur mentions it himself, at some point. It was impossible for Dutch to ever lie low, just because of who he was. He is a showman, a conman, and a man full of pride. Disappearing somewhere could never be a part of his agenda.

As for Micah, I don't think it could be as simple as offing him. In fact, at this point of the story, it would probably cause more harm than good. Arthur's wish, after all, is to save everyone, even Dutch, who seems unusually attached to Micah all throughout the game. ("You think I can't see past the blunder to the heart inside?") It's a complicated situation, one that Arthur will need to find a way to solve. And as you said, the problems are hardly just Micah alone. Remove Micah from the factor, and you'd probably end up with a similar tragedy.

And the mission you spoke of. I think that has always left me unsatisfied as well. It was quite obvious when Arthur stumbled his way back into camp that Dutch hardly cared for him. There are so many clear signs at this point that Dutch has started to lose sight of the person he was, or wanted to be, yet Arthur still sticks by his side to the very end. "Your loyalty is a blessing and a curse."

You're not the only one, I still have a lot of thoughts about this game and I am still discovering new things every day! That's why we all love it so much. Thank you so much for your heartfelt review and I hope to explore more of our discussion soon!

 **Shahaan:** Well, I'm not sure if Dutch actually changed or that the circumstances forced out his "true nature." It's definitely a personal view. Maybe Dutch had always been a bit psychopathic, maybe Tahiti was always just a pipe dream, and maybe he never really cared. Hosea absolutely kept him in check though, if there was anyone Dutch would listen to, it would be Hosea. And we all saw what happened when Hosea was lost.

As for Arthur being a tad emotional, you're probably right. I used to write angst so some of it might have bled through, though I would like to think that Arthur still harboured a lot of regrets even at the end. Faced with everything again, I don't think anyone could be as strong-hearted especially with the clairvoyance of the tragedy that was to come. He probably didn't show how much he agonised over losing Sean, Hosea, and Lenny then, but imagine going through the same pain twice. It would be quite terrible!

And I think it's not so much showing sympathy for the O'Driscolls. Arthur isn't a cold-blooded killer (at least in a max honour playthrough) and he'd shown he could let people go which means he has a certain degree of empathy. Colm throws away men like he throws away money. And in all those bad men, there has to be at least a good egg or two, like poor Kieran.

I'm definitely trying to keep the characters as faithful to the original as possible. Of course, some of it will involve my personal interpretation of the source material, but I'm doing my best to write the situation the way it would unfold if Arthur really did find himself having to relive his life again. Thank you for your support and review! It's always appreciated!


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